


Boof

by koalathebear



Category: Homeland
Genre: Australia, Dogs, F/M, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 23:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7866151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koalathebear/pseuds/koalathebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-season 5.  Quinn's alive, out of the CIA, recovering his health - and he's moved to Australia because my head canon always has Carrie and Quinn ending up in Australia, living in some remote coastal location in peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boof

**Author's Note:**

> We just rehomed our rescue Kelpie [Jerry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IBsxzM_rtyM) yesterday. His trial adoption was confirmed by his applicant. Because of behavioural issues, Jerry was in foster care with us for more than a year - longer than any other dog. At one point, we thought we'd have to euthanise him. But we persisted and eventually we found him his forever home. 
> 
> Anyway, this scribble was in part prompted by Jerry and in part prompted by the spoilery photos of season 6 Quinn.

"You've got post-traumatic stress disorder, Peter."

"No shit, Sherlock," Quinn drawled, leaning back in the chair in his shrink's office. His unwashed hair, hung lank and untidily over his face, a face that was puffy and swollen. 

Dr Amal cleared his throat politely. "Made worse by the fact that you don't want to take your medication."

Quinn shrugged. "I self-medicate."

"Alcohol makes it worse." Dr Amal pointed out, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses before he spoke again.

Quinn shrugged again, rubbing his hand over his unshaven jaw - a hand that still struggled to remain steady. Mouth tightening, he pulled his trembling hand away from his face, clenching it into a fist and stuffing it into his pocket.

"You're entitled to a PTSD Service Dog ... you might find that helps... the dogs are trained to detect signals of anxiety... when they sense certain triggers, the dogs are trained to perform a specific cue to help alleviate the symptoms of this trigger, for example, engaging in eye contact and body contact to comfort their owner and divert their attention."

Quinn looked incredulous. "Are you serious, doc?"

"Completely. And you're in luck - " he turned on the monitor of his computer.

Quinn looked revolted. "No way I'm getting a fucking poodle."

"This line has excellent breeding and all of the dogs have a temperament that - "

"No. Poodle," Quinn bit out deliberately.

Instead, Quinn made his way to the local pound. Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his shabby hoodie, he stared moodily into the faces of the dogs in their prisons of concrete blocks, wire and misery. The animals barked, whined, leapt up to get his attention. Others sat quietly, patiently as if still waiting for their owners to return.

"What's over there?" he demanded, gesturing in the direction of a sectioned off area of the yard.

"Those ones are getting the green dream, mate," the ranger told him briefly. 

Quinn's brows lifted. "What?"

"Aggressive. Unadoptable. Vet comes every tuesday and euths them. Better for them, better for us."

"Any dogs in there now?" Quinn asked.

"Just one."

"I want to see him."

"No, point." Then he shrugged and gestured for Quinn to follow him into the pen. As soon as they entered, there was a combination of high pitched barking and growling as a heavy body slammed hard against the wire. The dog behind the wire was a snarling mix of anger, frustration and fear. He looked a lot like Quinn felt these days. Like shit. 

The dog was battered, one ear missing, scars all over his powerful but thin body, the mutt of indeterminate origin bared its teeth and growled. The animal was angry at the world and everything in it.

"Seen enough?"

"This one," Quinn told him.

"You're off your rocker, mate. This one's not fit for - "

"What happened to him?" Quinn interrupted him.

The ranger scowled. "Asshole who owned him neglected him... beat the shit out of him when he was on the piss. Not fit to own a fucking goldfish let alone a dog."

"What's his name."

"Boof. Short for Boofhead." With his Australian accent, the dog's name sounded more like Boof-fed.

"I want this one," Quinn announced.

"Look, we can't sell dogs like this to the public ... there are rules we gotta follow."

"I'll take full responsibility... sign a fucking waiver."

"Doesn't work like that."

The ranger sighed. "Look - we got some room before we have to euth this one. I'll give you a week - you can come in and work with him. If there's any improvement, I'll talk to the boss and see what we can do."

"It's a deal."

*

"No alcohol on the premises," Andrew told him, his freckled face flushed and sweaty beneath his hat as he gestured towards the bottle in Quinn's hand.

"Afraid I'll corrupt the dogs?"

"Council policy," the ranger told him evenly.

Quinn shoved the bottle in Andrew's direction, muttering beneath his breath as he walked towards the pens, a long leash in his hand.

"Hate to see booze go to waste," Andrew called out after him, taking a swig from the bottle as he watched the American limping out back.

Boof remained at the very end of the enclosure when Quinn stepped inside the pen, dragging a chair with him and sitting inside with the wary dog.

"That's your idea of being the Dog Whisperer," Andrew asked sceptically. "Just sitting there eyeballing him?"

"Haven't you got some shit to shovel?" Quinn demanded evenly without looking at him, his eyes resting on the dog at the far end of the pen in a tense standing position.

"I'll leave you and Boof alone, then - but be careful. If he bites you, that's the end of the line for the mongrel."

"It's ok," Quinn told the dog in a low voice. "You look like shit. You feel like shit. That makes the two of us."

After a long moment, the dog lowered itself to the hard, cold concrete floor in a drop, still wary but less stiff.

Quinn's cellphone rang. He looked at the display and declined to answer. Sure enough, a text message came through almost immediately.

_No phone reception in Australia?_

He could almost hear the sarcasm in Carrie's voice.

*

"Sure you don't want to try Lulu instead? She's a lot more friendly," Andrew told him a few days later, indicating the cav cross in yard 5.

"Not a fan of rat dogs," Quinn replied, scattering kibble across the ground and then settling back in his chair to watch Boof. The dog lowered itself to the ground and cautiously came forward, devouring the kibble and then darting back to the opposite end of the pen.

He wasn't growling and snarling anymore, but he didn't want a thing to do with the humans.

"You change your mind - Lulu's waiting," Andrew told him as he walked past carrying a bucket and mop.

Quinn's cellphone rang and he let it ring out. 

_You're starting to piss me off. You'd better have a good reason for not picking up. Recovering from Sarin isn't going to be enough._

Quinn shoved the phone back into his pocket and tossed another handful of kibble onto the ground. "Don't look at me like that," Quinn told the dog. "She's a pain in the ass."

*

"You sure you don't want one of the poodle puppies," Dr Amal asked him, showing him a photo of a cute ball of fluff.

"Found my own dog," Quinn replied briefly. He rotated his shoulder, wincing slightly.

"Still sore?"

"Everything's sore," he replied. He coughed, the sound still wet and painful although the warm weather had improved the condition of his lungs considerably.

"How are your hands?" Dr Amal asked him and Quinn held one of his hands up. There was still a slight tremor, but it was a marked improvement over the early days. 

"Good. And how do you feel?" Dr Amal asked him.

"Numb," Quinn replied honestly.

Later that day as he sat facing Boof, he watched the dog approach the kibble warily, eat and then retreat. 

"That dog's a write-off, Quinn," Andrew told him, shaking his head as he walked past, leading a Bull Arab with mange into one of the holding pens. "Wasting your time."

"Nowhere else I gotta be," Quinn retorted without turning around. Boof remained a safe distance from him, head slightly cocked him and watching him narrowly.

"So I figure it's time we swapped stories. Me? Got shot ... had the shit kicked out of me by a group of Islamic extremists ... then I almost died from Sarin Gas poisoning. You?"

Boof lowered his head to the ground and gave a faint sigh. His mutilated ear was twisted and the scars on his face and torso were still livid and red, his eyes dark and cautious.

"You win ... least I still have my ear. My limp's worse than yours, though ..."

He tossed another handful of kibble towards Boof and there was a faint smile twisting his mouth.

*

When Tuesday rolled around, the vet arrived at the pound and set up in the small room that served as a clinic. 

"Yoh Andy - let's get this show on the road. Thought you said you had a dog for me to deal with?"

Quinn was sitting in Boof's pen again, Boof still at the opposite end but his shoulders were relaxed, his eyes drowsy and calm.

Quinn glanced over at the red-haired ranger, his face tight and his eyes dark. Andrew hesitated, looking at Quinn's haunted expression and over towards Boof who lay quiet and relaxed a short distance away.

"Sorry doc ... change of plans - all the dogs are being held over this week..."

Quinn exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing visibly. He reached into his pocket for his phone.

"Quinn? About fucking time. I've been trying to call you! How the fuck are you?" she demanded.

"Better," he told her with a rueful smile. "Would you believe I adopted a dog today?"

**fin**

  


**Post Script:** My husband and I have been rescuing and fostering dogs for several years now and believe very strongly in this activity. A quote on petstock really resonated with me: 

_It teaches your kids good values. Face it - we live in an extremely materialistic society, in which TV teaches kids that everything can be bought, that they should get their parents to buy them everything, and that anything worth having costs a lot of money. Adopting a rescue pet for your family presents a wonderful opportunity to teach your children basic values of compassion and caring, and also about the value of second chances._

I really believe in the value of second chances.


End file.
